


Until next time

by GlowwormiK



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Forgotten Love, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Romance, comfort cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 04:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12786987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlowwormiK/pseuds/GlowwormiK
Summary: Once a quintant, Zarkon goes into Haggar's lab for a medical check-up. Over the years, it has become something more than just basic medical procedure. POV Zarkon. My headcanon is that neither of them remembers their marriage.





	Until next time

Emperor Zarkon doesn't need to eat or breathe, and his body doesn't exude any liquids normal for a living being. Although he doesn't get dirty or sick in a way a living person would, his body still requires cleaning and maintenance, in a way a machine needs it. Emperor Zarkon doesn't sleep and he has no leisure time. Yet somewhere deep inside, he still needs to recharge mentally. That is why, once every phoeb, he wraps up reports from his commanders two vargas earlier than usual and presses the button to send Haggar the reminder in her calendar. Not that she needs it - in the millennia they have been doing it, every part of this procedure has become more than routine, it has grown into them.  
  
The emperor heads to what is called his personal quarters. It is a single half-empty room, a bed and a couple of drawers, clean and lifeless. Zarkon undoes the locks that hold his armor in place, puts it down, one plate after the other; remaining unprotected, clothed only in a bodysuit.  
  
He doesn't enjoy the shower. The warm currents are too soft, they remind him of weakness of a living body. Moreover, he doesn't like seeing himself naked, covered with a net of small and big scars. Millennia he lived through have left their impact on him, even if he doesn't admit it openly. These scars are signs of his mistakes, his lack of attention or consequences of the mercy he showed where firmness was required. They are signs that he is still mortal. His old, wrinkled skin disgusts him.  
  
Zarkon washes the soap off and steps out of the shower cabin. The zipper on the clean bodysuit and fabric of the new underwear scratch his skin unpleasantly. This is one of the downsides of his distorted and sharpened senses - he hardly feels pain from wounds, but these small things irritate him to the extent that he has to bite his teeth together. He pulls the fabric on his chest aside in an attempt to straighten the pleat, but it returns as soon as he releases his grip.  
  
There is nothing to be done about the discomfort, so he just lets it be and exits. His room is connected to Haggar's private study by a short secret passage. It is ironic, how the chambers he calls his private ones are barely something more than a closet near High Priestesses laboratories, but it is also convenient; so he doesn't feel like changing anything.  
  
Haggar is already waiting for him, her equipment on and buzzing. She greets him by turning her head slightly: half a nod, half an inspecting gaze. He nods back and sits down on the huge laboratory table. She comes over to him, and Zarkon bends his head down to let her check his health.  
  
"Does something bother you, Sire?" she asks, the same way she asked it a million times before. Zarkon silently shakes his head, also exact the same way he always does it. These rituals are strangely soothing to him. She pulls his eyelids slightly up and looks him in the eyes attentively, then traces her fingers along his skin, turns his head left and right. Zarkon waits. Finally, seemingly content with her examination, she releases him and steps back.  
  
"Lie down, my Lord. I need to check your quintessence levels," she says.  
  
One more convention that they hold onto without any proper need for it: she doesn't have to name it, he knows exactly what she is going to do now.  
  
Zarkon lays on his back, and Haggar starts fastening sensors on him. She unzips his bodysuit till his waist, opens it on his chest and places the suction cups on his neck and ribs, then adds clamps on his wrists and ankles. Her touch is precise and soft at the same time, as usual for these small wrinkled hands with pointy nails and way too big knuckles. Inside each suction cap there is a small metallic electrode, and Zarkon feels the cold of each and every of them. When Haggar is done with preparations, she looks over him once more and turns her machines on. The electrodes get hot and start sending electrical impulses through his muscles. Haggar is now standing with her back to him, concentrated on the screen, and he only sees her cloak, so Zarkon stares into the ceiling and counts backwards by three, starting from a random number that comes into his mind.  
  
Then it is over suddenly. The electrodes cool down, and the suction cups start falling off with soft smooching sounds. They leave black marks on Zarkon's skin; this makes them even more like twisted reminders of kisses. With the usual unpleasant feeling, Zarkon gathers the sensors by their wires, unplugs the ones that haven't fallen down on their own, arranges them to hang in parallel and leaves them on a hook at the side of the table; then he sits down. Haggar is still busy scrolling through the readings, so he stares at her back blankly, hardly any consistent thought in his head. The wires with electrodes hang down like a bunch of dead snakes, their heads bent down lifelessly.  
  
Finally, she is ready with her readings. She turns and comes back towards the table.  
  
"Your quintessence levels show no particularities, my Lord. Unless you have any complains about our health, I would say that you are doing fine."  
  
"Then I am doing fine," he answers.  
  
She nods and makes a step to the side. This is a sign that the checkup is over. Now begins the part he secretly wished from the very beginning. Haggar silently turns with her back towards the table. It is high enough for Zarkon to sit down without having his knees near his ears, so, obviously, it is too high for his tiny companion. She would have to climb if she wanted to sit down on her own, but Zarkon takes her by the waist with both hands and pulls her up to sit near himself. The witch exhales slightly, barely noticeably, and freezes at his side, slouched as usual. The hood still covers her face completely, so Zarkon only sees the tip of her nose.  
  
They sit like that for several doboshes, not speaking and not moving, just being there. Zarkon would take her hand or touch her hair, but the time hasn't come yet. Then she sighs once again, pushes the hood back and leans onto him, putting her head on the left side of his chest. This is a sign, a permission, and he leans against her, too, simultaneously wrapping his hand around her back. Not more. She doesn't allow herself to be properly hugged or seated in his lap.  
  
She relaxes in this half-hug, her head rested on his chest. A weird thought visits Zarkon: if she would turn her head, her nose would be in his armpit. Zarkon asks himself if it would be appropriate to bury his face in her hair, but decides against it, as usual. No need to put more pressure on her than absolutely necessary. Her body is so small and thin under his touch that it makes his heart contract. Those bird-like bones, seemingly only covered with skin.  
  
She is not hungry, he has to remind himself. She is not emaciated. She is a witch, powerful beyond imagination and not more fond of being pitied than he.  
  
He remembers the day many millennia ago, when the war with Altea was still raging in its full might. A general decided to kill his emperor to end the fighting. He was married to an Altean, miserable traitor, and put his partner's life over his duty. Zarkon was less proficient at interpreting his senses back then, so it was Haggar, standing near him as usual, who first noticed the danger. The officer threw a grenade, and this small, skinny woman grabbed Zarkon by the waist and launched him back across the room, away from the explosion, simultaneously raising a barrier to protect herself. The force with which she threw him around was so great that the landing disoriented Zarkon for a tick, and the wall he crashed into was bent as if a canon ball hit it. That day, Zarkon swore to himself to never underestimate his mysterious companion and never judge her on her size alone.  
  
They don't talk about state affairs in these chambers, not to spoil this precious silence with mundane chitchat. However, she sometimes asks him something personal. If he noticed a change about his senses, or if the quintessence power in his suit was working properly. His time, though, he will ask her.  
  
"Can you do something about the scars?" he starts and his voice sounds too loud, echoed from the walls. She winces, obviously not expecting this question.  
  
"Do they hurt?" she asks, raising her head to look into his face, visibly concerned.  
  
"No, they never do. Still, is there a way to get rid of them?"  
  
I don't want to wear signs of my weakness on my body, he would have added, but it is not necessary. She doesn't need speeches to understand.  
  
Haggar lowers her gaze and puts her head back on his chest.  
  
"Not in a way you would like it, Sire. The regeneration of your body is extraordinary, but you heal by building connective tissue, like everybody else, and it produces scars. In fact, due to your explosive regeneration, if we were to remove one scar, your body would build a thicker one in its place."  
  
There is not much to add, so they go silent again. If Haggar says the scars will stay, then they probably will. With another person, Zarkon would have regretted his question, but not with her. He knows that his words will be buried in the silence of this chamber.  
  
"I can look into it, if this is necessary," she adds, but Zarkon just sighs and shakes his head.  
  
Her body seems warmer than his for some reason, and this warmth spreads in his chest from the point where her bony shoulder touches his rib cage. Her hand is lying on his thigh, almost weightless, and yet still there, both visible and palpable. Her palm is open, fingers half-bent and relaxed. Zarkon dares to cup her hand with his, and she intertwines their fingers instead of pulling away.  
  
Zarkon sits silently, his eyes closed, and enjoys this gentle sensation. It is neither a lover's hug nor a friend's touch. This is something more than any of those trivial relationships, something deeper, a connection that goes through his very essence, affects every his decision, defines him as a person. The depth of this link would have been terrifying, if it wasn't with Haggar. He doesn't even know her real name, but he trusts her more than anyone in the world, more then himself; he knows that she will always act in his best interest. Where he would normally fight, he allows himself to just enjoy this incredible closeness without hesitation.  
  
And then it stops. Zarkon opens his eyes: Haggar is sitting straight again now, the hood is once again covering her head. It is over. She always starts and ends these brief moments, and she doesn't allow herself to be forced into continuing.  
  
Haggar slides down from the table, turns her back towards the emperor and starts scrolling through the data.  
  
"I won't delay you any longer, Sire," she says.  
  
There couldn't be a more clear goodbye. Zarkon also gets up, zips the collar of his bodysuit up completely and leaves through the same corridor he used to enter here.  
  
The armor is waiting for him in his chambers, cleaned and put together. He starts dressing up, feeling as refreshed and warmed as no shower could ever make him. His thoughts slowly return to their usual pace and direction. He remembers his plans with new clarity, and small details put themselves in place with ease that he didn't experience before.The huge net, the Empire, has once again occupied all his thought.  
  
When Zarkon closes the collar of his armour on his neck, he touches the zipper. He remembers how another hand pulled it down today to make sure if he was in good health. Until next time, the thinks while he adjusts the breast plate and clicks close the locks that hold it in place. Until next time.


End file.
